North Star Guide Me Home

by Jo Spurrier

  Dedication

  For Rory

  Map

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Jo Spurrier

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  ‘Issey, we’re almost there. Just a little further.’ Worry was plain in her voice. ‘Rasten, he’s icy cold.’

  The ride back from the ruins had left the crude bandages warm and wet, and when they passed under the shade of the trees around the oasis, Isidro shivered from the sudden chill.

  ‘It’s the blood he’s lost. Get him down by the fire.’

  They dragged as much as carried him to the camp beside the water-hole. Sierra slung his broken arm across her shoulders, but she was too short to give much support. Her aid came from the touch of her bare skin, draining away the pain from the wounds across his chest and his broken bones.

  Rasten bore him up beneath his other arm and steered Isidro towards the fire … where had that come from? Before Isidro could work out Rasten had lit it when he returned for the horses, they’d laid him on the warm sand and hurried away. He felt faintly alarmed that they were leaving him, but he couldn’t muster the strength to call after them.

  When he roused again it was to a peculiar tugging sensation in his chest. He opened his eyes to find Sierra kneeling over him, sewing up the gashes Kell’s sword had opened across his ribs. She was covered with grime and blood, wearing only a breast-band laced across her chest and with her tangled hair in a rough knot. Isidro felt no sting as she pushed the needle through his ragged skin, only a peculiar tug as the thread was pulled taut.

  When he made an effort to lift his head, she paused, straightening to ease the cramped curve of her back.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Isidro croaked, craning to see the damage.

  ‘They’re long and ugly, but that’s all,’ Sierra said, wiping away a fresh seep of blood.

  The blade had been caught between their bodies when Rasten drove Kell to the ground with Isidro trapped beneath him. He was lucky the sword hadn’t pierced his gut.

  Nearby, someone shifted with a rustle of clothing. Isidro stiffened as Rasten leant over him, holding a water-skin. ‘Kell kept you thirsting, didn’t he? Your blood is thick and sluggish. Drink slowly. If you puke you’ll rip the stitches out.’

  Wariness made him hesitate. Rasten had tortured him, had done things that even now he tried not to recall … but only a few hours ago they’d fought together to defeat the one who’d tormented them both. Neither could have succeeded alone; it was only because they’d pulled together that Kell lay dead.

  He drank in slow sips until Sierra finished stitching and she helped him sit up so she could wrap clean bandages across his chest from collarbone to navel. It was only then that Isidro noticed the bulky bindings covering his right arm and the fresh blood seeping through the bandages. ‘What happened to it?’ he asked, struggling to form the question with his slow and sleepy mind.

  Sierra glanced at Rasten, her lips pursed.

  ‘Your hand was turning black,’ Rasten said. ‘The swelling presses on the veins like a tourniquet. I’ve seen limbs turn gangrenous from it. Cutting relieves the pressure.’

  By the time the bandages were tied Isidro’s head was spinning, and he had little choice but to lie down again, glad the cutting had happened while he was unconscious. He might accept water from Rasten’s hands, but if Rasten came towards him with a knife Isidro knew he couldn’t lie still and wait for the blade.

  ‘Issey, get some rest,’ Sierra said, pulling a blanket over him.

  Isidro watched her mix a fresh brew of herbs and water. She seemed … different. There was weariness in every line of her body, but there was more to it than that. The last time they’d been together was in the stronghold of Demon’s Spire. In those long weeks she’d been riven by desperation and anxiety, overwhelmed by the thought of all the souls relying on her for their freedom and their lives as the Slavers railed over the treasure she’d winkled from their grasp. Despite the pressure and fear, she’d seemed utterly driven and determined, willing to do whatever it took to survive and prevail …

  But that was before everything went wrong; before her power slipped her control and drained him to a husk; before she stole away and surrendered to Rasten, submitting to his arms and to his bed. So much had changed since that night — through the connection that bound them he’d caught hints of what she’d endured while he’d clung to sanity in the dark caverns beneath the mountain and then set out with the others in a desperate trek south to find Cam before the king’s men did. Even as she knelt beside him, he felt as though she were a million miles away.

  Her ordeals had changed her, but she wasn’t the only one. He’d spent months with Kell riding west, half apprentice and half slave. Even with Kell dead, the weight of all he’d seen and done pressed down upon Isidro’s shoulders. He felt as heavy and lifeless as lead, as though when he closed his eyes he’d turn to stone and never wake again.

  You’re raving, he told himself. We’re alive and Kell’s dead, and it’s over, at last. Sirri’s right, just get some sleep. Everything will seem better in the morning. He repeated the words over and over, willing himself to believe, until at last he fell asleep and was still once again.

  When Kell collapsed the roof during the battle in the ruins, Rasten had taken the brunt of it on his left shoulder. Grit and dust were ground into the wound and, as Rasten lay down on the filthy blankets, Sierra set wet rags over the crust of dirt and dried blood to soften it. While Rasten had fetched the horses, she’d found Kell’s gear and salvaged his packs of medicinal herbs, the clean bandages, the needles and sutures. As she hunted through the cases for a pair of tweezers, she had to fight down a wave of revulsion as she recalled which hands last touched the fine wood and velvet-lined trays. When her shaking fingers dropped the tweezers in the dirt, she cursed herself with a snarl and dropped them into the pot of water simmering over the fire. She had only the most rudimentary knowledge of caring for wounds, although Rasten had years of experience, not just of killing but of keeping prisoners alive as well. He had taught her the importance of cleanliness.

  When Sierra turned back from the fire, she found Rasten studying her, his dark eyes gleaming in the firelight. ‘Your friend will live, I think,’ he said. ‘So long as his wounds don’t sicken.’

  She glanced at Isidro, sprawled on a blanket spread over the sand. She’d forgotten how big he was — she always seemed to forget, each time they were apart, just how tall he was and how long his limbs. However, she hadn’t forgotten the warmth of his smile or the feeling of his hand against her back … perhaps, in time, those memories would fade as well.

  Rasten heaved himself up, the movement sending a ripple of echoed pain through Sierra’s shoulder and back. ‘It would’ve gone to gangrene if I didn’t cut, I swear it. Do you believe me, Sirri?’

  ‘I do,’ she said. ‘You’ve never lied to me. Now, lie down, let me see to that shoulder.’

&
nbsp; With a sigh, Rasten settled down onto the blankets again. ‘Are there any bandages left?’

  ‘Enough for you,’ Sierra said. ‘Enough for tonight, at least.’

  It was very early when Sierra shook Isidro awake. It took him long moments to focus on her face as she knelt beside his bed. Her hair was wet, and yesterday’s tangles were combed away.

  Someone had rigged a lean-to over him, a long, low shelter, facing the fire. On the far side stood a similar structure with a dark mound lying beneath the blankets. Rasten.

  ‘Issey, I’m going back to the ruins for more supplies,’ she said. ‘Do you need anything before I leave?’

  ‘Water,’ he croaked. The blood loss, combined with Kell’s deprivations, left him as parched as a desert. She fetched him a water-skin, and a wooden bowl as well. ‘I made some tea,’ she said.

  As he took the bowl from her, Isidro saw her torn fingertips, the wounds barely scabbed over. He didn’t realise how cold he was until he sipped the warming brew.

  ‘Anything else?’ she asked.

  Isidro said nothing, but his eyes shifted to Rasten’s form.

  ‘He won’t trouble you,’ Sierra said. ‘He’s not the man he was back in midwinter, I swear.’

  Rasten was never that man to her. Even at his most brutal, Rasten had cherished her as his only hope for freedom. Isidro was just another sacrifice to feed the ritual.

  Sierra must have read something of his thoughts. ‘Issey, I mean it. He’s not like he was … but you can reach for me if there’s any problem. I can send you power if need be.’

  ‘If you’re so certain why trouble to warn me?’ he hissed.

  Sierra bit her lip. ‘I didn’t want you to wake and find yourself alone with him with no explanation. I’m the only one of us fit to carry and lift, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Isidro nodded and closed his eyes. He’d slept soundly during the night, and yet he still felt exhausted. He groped for Sierra’s hand. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’re so cold.’ She went to the other shelter, returning with a blanket to spread over him. So, she’d slept beside Rasten, but hadn’t shared his bed.

  ‘I’m surprised you can stand to lie beside him,’ Isidro said. ‘After all he’s done —’

  ‘That was Kell’s doing,’ Sierra said. ‘Rasten was just the weapon he used.’

  ‘So Kell dies and he’s a new man? It doesn’t work that way, Sirri.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Ten years of horror doesn’t vanish in a matter of months. I know this is hard, but there’s no other choice. We’re all in this together.’ She started to rise then, but hesitated, biting her lip.

  ‘What?’ Isidro said.

  ‘I …’ she looked down, flushing. ‘I know about you and Delphine. She contacted us … oh, a long time ago now, before we left Ricalan. She and Cam had to run, I don’t know why. They were following our trail. That’s all I know.’

  ‘And she … she told you?’

  ‘I worked it out. The way she spoke of you … Well, I wanted you to know what’s happened to them, and that you needn’t worry about me finding out. After … after what I did, I don’t blame you.’ She drew a deep breath, blinking shining eyes, and pulled away. ‘I’d best go.’

  ‘Sirri, wait —’ He reached for her, but the movement pulled on the gashes across his chest and sent a wave of fire rippling over his skin.

  Sierra paused and took his hand, and a flood of icy numbness washed the pain away. Isidro shuddered at the sensation. Now that he knew Kell’s darker secrets, and had been initiated into rituals of the blood, he had a more intimate knowledge of what her power was taking from him. Still, he wouldn’t refuse it.

  ‘Sirri,’ he said with a gasp. ‘There’s something I need you to do for me. There was a device. I dropped it when we were fighting Kell … a metal tube, about a foot long. I need you to destroy it. Please.’

  She held his gaze for a moment, and nodded before rising in silence and padding away through the dawn.

  Warmer now, Isidro dozed and drank in turn until the water-skin was empty and his bladder full. For a while he tried to sleep once more, but slumber escaped him and he soon grew chilled again. There was nothing for it. He had to get up.

  It took great effort to cast the blankets aside and sit up. A square of cloth had been left near his bed for a sling, and Isidro was quite practised at tying the knot with his teeth and one hand. Sierra must have left it there, he thought. Gingerly, he settled his splinted arm into the cradle of cloth, and then sat with his head between his knees until the feeling that he would throw up, or faint, passed. Only then did he make the trek to a stand of trees away from the water-hole. By the time he reached it, he was trembling so badly he had to lean against a tree trunk for support, and when he pissed the flow was dark and stinking.

  He started back to the camp, but after only a few stumbling paces he had to rest. It seemed a bad idea — Isidro was certain that once down he wouldn’t have the strength to rise again, but it seemed he must sit or fall. He settled onto the cool, prickling grass and lay back, gazing up at the sky with half-lidded eyes, wondering if the western lands had crows to pick over the dead. What manner of beast would seek out Kell’s carrion in the cool depths of the caves?

  Behind him came a sound like cloth flapping in a stiff breeze, and he felt a pulse of power skitter across his nerves. Was Sierra returning? Then he cast his eye across the camp, and his belly shrank to a cold, hard knot. The dark shape under the shelter was gone.

  There came footsteps behind him, the rustle of crushed grass. They came within a half-dozen feet and stopped, and Rasten spoke in a rasp. ‘How goes it?’

  Isidro forced himself to sit up, breathing deeply to keep from fainting. ‘Could be worse,’ he said.

  Rasten was shirtless and barefoot, his left shoulder wrapped in bandages. At the sight of him some instinct forced Isidro to his feet, as though the other man were a beast that would hesitate to take on a larger target, but then he saw that Rasten had his arms full of blankets and clothing.

  They had fought side by side only a day ago, but that memory was dulled by pain and exhaustion and it was hard to keep separate from the other recollections of the pain-filled tent last winter.

  ‘You look like shit,’ Rasten said. ‘You should be lying down.’

  He was probably right, Isidro conceded. ‘Are you … doing laundry?’

  ‘Everything’s filthy and we’ve used all the bandages, unless Sierra finds more. If these wounds turn foul we’ll be in worse straits than we already are.’

  ‘Kell has lots, given what he meant to do to you and Sirri.’

  Rasten narrowed his eyes. ‘Had. Kell’s dead. We saw him die.’

  ‘Yes,’ Isidro said, pressing his good hand to his forehead. ‘Had.’

  ‘Go lie down,’ Rasten said. ‘If you fall, and injure yourself more, Sirri will skin me alive.’

  Isidro stared at him. He heard the words, but it took an age to make sense of them. What’s wrong with me?

  ‘You lost a lot of blood,’ Rasten said, making Isidro wonder if he’d spoken aloud. ‘It’s muddled your wits.’

  ‘Do we have any food?’

  ‘Kell must have had supplies. Sirri will find them. If everything else fails, we’ll kill one of the spare horses for meat.’

  Isidro turned towards the camp, the world swaying around him. ‘She’s not back yet?’

  ‘No. If she’s not here soon, I’ll go look for her.’

  As Isidro crawled beneath the canopy, Rasten took away the blankets, leaving a clean one in their place. As Isidro drifted off to sleep he heard the slosh of buckets drawing water from the spring.

  The old man is dead. You saw him die. As Rasten pummelled the sodden mass of cloth he conjured up the sight — the spurting blood, the fading sight in Kell’s shocked and frightened eyes. How many times had he watched a body’s systems falter and the final spark of life wink out? He’d never had trouble believing it in the past. He’s dead, and it’s over.
You’re free.

  He didn’t feel any different. That was the problem. It didn’t change what had happened, it didn’t erase the years of torture and degradation. He was still the creature Kell had made of him: a twisted, vicious beast who knew nothing but pain and power.

  As he scrubbed, he could hear Kell’s voice lecturing on the importance of cleanliness and the care of open wounds. A subject could not be allowed to sicken and die before his master was finished. Rasten had tried it once, before he learnt that resistance only made things worse. He fouled the wounds Kell had made, hoping the fever would carry him off, but Kell had tied him down and cleaned the cuts with the strongest solution he could brew.

  It’s finished. It’s over. Rasten clenched his jaw until his head ached. It didn’t matter that Kell had stood over him a thousand times as he’d scrubbed at the stains of his own blood. It needed to be done.

  When the last scrap of cloth was clean, he ached from head to toe, and Sierra still hadn’t returned. He reached for her with his mind, found her hoisting a bundle onto a packhorse. Sirri?

  I’m almost done. How’s Isidro?

  Sleeping. Rasten glanced over at him, and saw his water-skin was empty once more. Do you need help?

  No, stay with Issey. I startled a pair of wild dogs tearing at the old man’s body. If they caught Issey’s scent, he’s too weak to fend them off.

  After they broke contact, Rasten found himself watching the still figure beneath the blankets. There was a time when even the thought of Isidro’s name would set him burning with jealousy and rage. It had changed so gradually that, looking back, he couldn’t identify the shift — but at some point the anger had faded, and instead of a rival he’d come to view Isidro as a fellow traveller on this road.

  Somehow, he doubted Isidro saw it the same way. Rasten had shattered his arm six months ago, and ground hot irons into his back, torturing him until he surrendered his brother. And then, when Cam escaped them, Kell had ordered Rasten to rape Isidro in punishment.

  And he’d enjoyed it. Kell had made sure that Rasten’s only pleasure came from bending his victims to his will, and he’d long ago learnt to block out any pity or compassion. With Sierra’s influence he’d started to undo the training, but it was slow going, with faltering progress.